The Case of the Vanishing Van Gogh
by DyingDetective221B
Summary: Sherlock plunges headfirst into a new, dangerous case involving seemingly unrelated murders, several forgeries, and an art theft. Told through the viewpoint of a young university student who seems to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and gets wrapped up in the mystery as an assistant to Sherlock. Rated T for violence and language in later chapters. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

_ BZZZZZZZZT. _I groan as my alarm clock goes off. _It seriously can't be morning already…?_ Sighing, I blindly extend my arm in order to turn it off, and get a much-needed extra five minutes of sleep; only to discover that it's not on my dresser. My eyes fly open. _Andrea!_

I lurch up into a sitting position, and glare at my roommate, who is currently standing across the room and grinning evilly; my alarm clock clutched in her outstretched palm. She laughs, turns the buzzer off, and chucks it across the room to me. I fumble as I attempt to catch it, and end up dropping the clock on the ground. Yep. My reflexes are still as horrible as ever.

"That. Wasn't. Nice." I say between my teeth while I pick the offending clock up and haphazardly throw it on the dresser. Andrea, who is now in the process of making tea, merely shrugs.

"I wasn't about to let you make us both late to class again. Williams near about had a fit on Tuesday when we came in half an hour past the bell, and I'm not about to let my grade in that class suffer because your planning skills are too poor to enable you to complete your homework _before _3 in the bloody morning. Now get your arse moving, Mariel, or I swear, I'm dragging you out the door to class in nothing but your dressing gown." Her words sound serious, but I know she's just joking. Well, half-joking. She really would make me go to class in my pajamas to spare her being late. That's just how Andrea is.

After a quick shower, I dress in jeans and an old black hoodie, which in a previous life, may have been my brother's old soccer uniform. Fashion is not exactly my most developed talent. Andrea and I then dash out the door. I glance at my watch. Great. Five minutes to sprint across the school green. Good thing I've started running again.

We explode into the classroom right as the bell rings, and sink into our seats. I glance around. No sign of Prof. Williams. Well, that's a first. I can't remember a single time since school started that he hasn't been in his classroom a good half-hour before class started. The class whispers amongst themselves, unsure of what to make of this unprecedented occurrence.

During this interlude, Andrea passes over a juice box and something vaguely reminiscent of a granola bar. I roll my eyes at her.

"What?" she exclaims. "Someone's got to make sure that you eat! You're thin enough already, not without you skipping meals in order to work on schoolwork!" I sigh as I unwrap the silver encasement to the snack.

"Well, _some_ of us have got a scholarship to uphold! And I'll be well and truly screwed if that gets taken away because of a poor grade. In another couple of weeks, if I don't get a job, I'll be flat broke." Now it's Andrea's turn to roll her eyes.

"Pleaase!" she drawls in her Northern accent. "Your marks are higher than this whole class' combined. There's no possible way that they would revoke it. It's time you took a break and started having some _fun._ Yu do remember what that is? Fun?" she teases, elbowing me in the side. I'm about to turn to her and make a snarky reply, when Prof. Williams walks in the room. The entire class goes dead silent and waits for an explanation.

But none is given. The middle-aged professor just pushes his glasses up on his nose, straightens his tie, and instructs us to take out our textbooks and open to page 478. He then proceeds to give a lecture on medieval art forms. I zone out on the lesson, as I have already read up on this subject a week in advance.

Normally, I would be taking notes, but the sugar rush from the juice Andrea gave to me, along with a general lack of sleep has caused my attention to wander. As I dreamily stare at the empty whiteboard, I notice something strange about Williams. His manner of dress has been seriously disrupted today. He's one of those professors who believe that wearing a suit on a daily basis is a must, and that walking out of the door in anything less classy than a Westwood is basically a cardinal sin. But today, he looks more ready to hang out at a pub with his mates rather than to have tea with the Queen.

His tie is off centered, shirt rumpled, distinct five 'o clock shadow around his chin, shadows under his eyes… he looks positively hung over, and if I'm not much mistaken, those are jeans that he's sporting. The teacher's hair is messy, and he's talking with a nervous, agitated air, as if he's anticipating something. He even stutters in the middle of his lecture. And…whoa. _Is that a coffee stain on his shirt? _What is going on? Williams is obviously under some sort of enormous stress.

I look around the room, certain that I can't be the only one who's noticing these things. But every other student in the classroom is bent over his or her notebook, scribbling furiously as each one attempts to transcribe Williams' lecture on ancient etchings and so on from the Middle Ages. I shake my head, unbelieving of my fellow classmates, when suddenly, there's a loud knock at the door.

Williams breaks off in the middle of a sentence, twitching spasmodically and tells some kid in the back row to get the door. The student rises, and opens the door to let in a middle aged man in a suit, with grey hair and a police badge. He's flanked by two other police officers, and behind them are standing two men in plainclothes, one very tall and the other very short. I take no notice of those two; however, as the entire class is attempting to make out the conversation between the head officer and our professor, who, at this point is sweating buckets and looks likely to have a nervous breakdown.

"… going to have to take you in for some questions, you see… standard protocol… dreadfully sorry" the grey haired officer is saying, as Williams continues to twitch. But then, suddenly, the tall plainclothes man cuts into the dialogue with a deep bass voice.

"Oh, Lestrade. When will you learn? You're going to get nowhere by mollycoddling the felon." He then turns a steely blue gaze onto Williams, who has suddenly stopped shaking and stands with a strange sort of sneer on his face. "You are Mark Williams, more commonly known in the criminal underworld as Eric Greenhalgh, where you head a ring of art forgers that has infiltrated galleries across Europe with more than two hundred of your counterfeit paintings in the last five years. You also have quite a large standing in the illegal drugs industry, but seeing as that certain accusation is based more on circumstantial evidence than the previous one, you are currently only being arrested solely on account of the first charge. Unfortunately."

The entire room stares transfixed at this creature, who has just stated this seemingly impossible story as if were base fact in less than twenty seconds, and with such overwhelming confidence. Nobody moves for a second that seems like an eternity, when spontaneously, Williams jerks back from the group of men, and suddenly, I'm wishing that I hadn't picked such a close spot to the door.

My brain seems to stop, and I am unable to comprehend what is going on. I see what is happening as if from a different vantage point: Williams holding a scrawny girl by her black curly ponytail, pressing a gun to her head. And then suddenly, I'm back in the real world, hyperventilating and trying to twist away from this madman that professes to be my teacher.

"If any one of you makes a single move, then she dies!" he yells, and the entire room goes quiet. Williams' voice has mysteriously changed from a practiced Cambridge accent to almost a cockney drawl, and this change is perhaps even more shocking then the gun jammed against my right temple. "I'll do it, I really will! Just ask 'im right there, since 'e seems to already know so much about me!" he says, pointing at the tall, blue eyed man with his free hand.

As the "teacher" says these words, he yanks me back across the classroom, making me stumble due to my clumsiness (amplified to an extreme in this stressful moment), and then hauls me roughly back up. He reaches at the door that leads to his office in the back of the classroom, opens it, and pushes me inside, following quickly. The last thing I see before the door slams shut and it is locked, is Andrea's terrified face, staring right at me.

As soon as the door locks, Williams pushes me to the ground and harshly instructs me to stay there if I want to stay alive. He starts going through his desk drawers and frantically yanks out a few papers, muttering and swearing to himself the entire time. The classroom behind the door is erupting in chaos, and I can hear the officer, Lestrade, I think that man called him, barking orders out at people.

Williams then straightens up, and says "Right." He tears the window open and grabs me by the hair, making me cry out in pain. The ex-professor drags me over to the window, shoves the papers in his pocket, and gestures with the gun outside to the fire escape. The meaning is all too clear. I'm going to be forced to act as his human shield against whoever may be outside. I look at the 4 floor drop, consider my lack of coordination, and think, with a touch of sarcasm that doesn't match up with the direness of the situation, _I knew there was a reason I couldn't stand Williams._


	2. Chapter 2

The cold November wind whips my hair around and stings my face. I know that I should keep moving if I want to prevent a bullet ending my life, but I've been stopped short by the dizzying climb that waits below me. My breath gets short and quick, and I break out into a cold sweat. I can't do this. I'll fall to my death, just like _she _did…

_She stands on a bridge, arms outstretched, like a bird's wings- a graceful bird about to take flight. Running, screaming as loud as I can… no stop stop please… and then-_

But my thoughts are interrupted by a massive shove from behind, and I go tumbling out of the window on to the fire escape below. The wind is knocked out of me, and I gasp for air as Williams follows me out. He then wrenches me up and hisses at me to get moving. I try to swallow down my blinding fear. _Don't look down, don't look down_, I instruct myself, but of course, I do, and a wave of terror passes over me. I repress it. There's no time for that now.

As we make our way down the ladder, I see people bursting out of the front doors: the men who had been in the classroom, accompanied by a various assortment of administrators are now running around the grass, shouting at each other. One of them has his gun out.

When we reach the 3rd floor landing on the fire escape, Williams yanks me closer, thinking that this will protect him against potential gunfire as we get nearer to the line of fire. He couldn't be more wrong, and he didn't take into consideration my complete and utter lack of coordination.

His sudden, unannounced movement causes me to stumble, losing my balance, and we both pitch forward over the side of the fire escape. I thrust my arm out as I fall and manage to grab on to the side. I hear the gun fall and clatter to the ground below. For a split second, I think I'm safe, but then a weight pulls painfully at my left leg as Williams holds on for dear life. I grunt in pain, and try to shake him off, but his sense of self-preservation won't enable him to let go.

My grip is slipping. Five more grueling seconds of this, and we'll both go falling to the pavement below. So I make one final effort. I rear my right foot back, and then send it smashing into William's face. He screams and lets go, I regain my grip, and there's a sickening crunch on the sidewalk. Then silence.

With a huge effort, I haul myself up onto the fire escape again, breathing heavily and trembling. I gradually become aware of the chaos underneath me: more police cars have arrived, along with an ambulance. The limp form of my professor is carried into it and then quickly transported away. People are swarming below, but I'm unable to discern if I recognize any of them: my vision's getting a little blurry.

"Well, it looks like you need some help getting down." states a voice, and I turn around to see the shorter plainclothes man from before standing behind me, extending a hand. He looks and sounds kind, but I'm still on edge, thanks to my recent abduction, and I hesitate. He sees my reluctance, and laughs. "It's all right, you can trust me; I'm a doctor." Slightly less suspicious, I take his outstretched hand and he helps me up.

"A doctor? I thought you and your tall friend down there were with the police." He laughs again, and the man answers my inquiry as he helps me down the narrow stairs of the fire escape.

"Well, Sherlock and I aren't officially with the police; you see, we're sort of… uhm… what would you call it? Freelancers, I suppose. Although he likes to refer to himself as a "consulting detective". He invented the job, as he'll tell anyone who'll listen. I'm really just his assistant, I guess." He finishes his explanation as we reach the ground. The doctor brushes his jacket off and extends a hand. "John Watson. And you are…?" I return the proffered handshake and reply.

"Mariel Degas." John's eyes widen a little in recognition of my surname.

"Ah! Degas, like the painter? Any relation to you?" he asks, probably only as a conversational point, not really expecting the answer.

"The one and only." I confess, a bit sheepishly. "Descended from one of his brothers on my mother's side." I fiddle with my necklace absentmindedly, a sharp stab of pain passing through me at the mention of her.

"Mother's side?" he questions, and I bite my lip.

"Yeah. I choose not to use my father's surname… long story there." There's an awkward silence, as often tends to happen whenever I mention my dear old dad. I quickly change the subject as John walks me over to the congregation of police cars.

"Ermm… How badly hurt was Williams? Not that I really care, after he just almost killed me and everything, but I'm just curious."

"He's still alive-the fall didn't kill him, but it'll be a long time before his legs get out of plaster. And he'll be hauled off to court, and then jail, before that happens." He chuckles a little bit at this. By this time, we've reached the police cars, and I'm swarmed by several different officers, pestering me with questions.

A while later, I'm seated on the hood of one of the squad cars, wearing a bright orange shock blanket that one of the officers placed around my shoulders. It's been about a half hour, and I've been questioned nonstop by several different people, all asking the same questions about what happened, about Williams, and other nonsense. My throat is beginning to feel really sore, what with all the talking I've been doing.

John walks over to me again, this time with his tall friend in tow; I forget his name.

" 'Lo." I say weakly. John winces sympathetically.

"Police investigations can be quite a drag at times. I'm sorry that you've had to go through all of this." I smirk, my overwhelming need to use sarcasm after a long time of having to answer things seriously taking over.

"Well, I don't know. I've always wanted to be abducted by a psychotic teacher and almost fall to my death from a fire escape. What a way to go…" John snorts at this, but his friend just stares at me intently, as if he's trying to figure something out. I look away from him and back to John. "It sure beats suffering through Geology though." I say dryly. The doctor cracks a smile at that and responds.

"Sounds like it. Look, I'd hate to bother you again, but my friend here would like to ask you some questions…" I grimace, reluctant to answer the same old questions _again _and strain my voice even further. John seems to anticipate my unwillingness, and explains, "They won't be the same questions that you've been getting all morning; don't worry. Sherlock Holmes' questions are many things, but never ordinary."

The other man, Sherlock Holmes, smiles at this; a quick slight raise of one corner of his mouth, and then it's gone. He turns to me and fixes me with the same uncanny, peering gaze as before.

"Miss Degas," he says smoothly, "I understand that it may be difficult to remember, but it is imperative in this instance that you do your very best." I stare at him, slightly unnerved by his demeanor, and his serious tone. He then continues, "Can you recall what your professor's left ear looked like? And what was the state of his right ankle?" The detective then proceeds to look at me expectantly.

I just look back at him, more than a little confused. I have no clue why he would want to know these things, and I have a strong urge to tell him to sod off. But John seems to trust this strange man, even if I don't; and I trust John, so I decide to try to answer the inquiries. I think about it for a moment, and then respond.

"Um… his left ear… yeah, there's a big chunk missing from the top of it- he told the class on the first day of term that it was from an accident he had with a dog when he was young… Oh, and there was a closing scar from some sort of ear piercing. I thought that it was a bit incongruous with his personality when I noticed it-"

"Did he tell your class anything about that?" interrupts Sherlock Holmes. I glare at him, raising one eyebrow as if to ask him if he wants me to continue or not. We glower at each other for a couple of seconds, until, finally he gives in. "Do continue your narrative, Miss Degas." He says shortly. John looks surprised at this. Apparently, he is very used to seeing this man get his way with everything. Well, then he's never met someone as stubborn as I am. I smirk, and continue.

"I was getting to that. No, he did not tell us about his ear piercing; I simply noticed it. It was quite obvious, in fact; except I believe my classmates were too preoccupied to ever see it." When I say this, John chuckles a bit and glances at Sherlock Holmes, who is looking at me curiously.

"And as for your second question, yeah, there's a tattoo on his right ankle. I noticed it during the struggle on the fire escape. It's a picture of some sort of flower, maybe a…"

"Water lily?" The infuriating man interrupts again, and I roll my eyes in frustration.

"Yeah. I suppose that's what it could've been." I reply. Sherlock Holmes straightens up and rubs his hands together excitedly. He looks at John.

"This is just what I suspected. If we use this to gain some more information, we'll be able to better identify the man and what he wanted here." I look at him, incredulous.

"And how would you be able to do that?" I ask him. "I just gave you a couple of random facts. I mean, I see how that could help you figure out who Williams was, but how would you be able to discover his motives using those things…" I trail off as he chuckles darkly.

"The same way upon first seeing you, I was able to discern that you are American, a scholar who aspires to be an artist, and a cello player. Upon further examination, I saw that you recently have not been sleeping well, you've lost somebody important to you in the past three or so years, probably your mother; you've come to study in England to escape an abusive guardian, and you are on a large prescription of antidepressant medication." I stare at him, unsure of whether to smack him or praise him. John looks at the detective reproachfully, and I can tell that this has happened many times before. Sherlock Holmes looks expectantly at me, waiting for a reaction. So, I decide not to give one to him.

"Is that all?" I reply nonchalantly, and cross my arms, attempting to seem unimpressed. John barely represses a smile at this, and his companion looks extremely offended.

"What do you mean, 'Is that all'?" he snaps petulantly. I shrug, wholeheartedly enjoying his reaction.

"Well, it doesn't seem like that much. And how am I supposed to know that you haven't looked me up online or something?" The consulting detective glares at me, takes a deep breath, and launches into a fast-paced explanation, just as I'd hoped.

"First of all, your accent is distinctly American. Obviously, you're not a native of England. The marks on your hands- oil and pastel paints primarily and possibly even some clay. The marks are faint: you've tried hard to wash them off, perhaps in an effort to seem more studious. A student at university for painting wouldn't have tried to hide the evidence that they're a painter: they'd be strangely proud of those paint stains. So, your painting skills are not what you're at school for, but it is definitely a passion for you. So, I deduce from this, that you wish to be an artist, but chose to study the academic side of art, most likely for practical reasons.

"As for the cello, there are calluses that can only be produced by playing a stringed instrument or participating in competitive gymnastics. Your physique is ideal for a gymnast, but your obvious lack of grace rules that out, leaving the latter. You're a musician. The calluses are from a larger stringed instrument, maybe the double bass, but most likely a cello.

"The prominent shadows under your eyes speak for themselves about your sleep habits, or lack thereof. The fact that you've lost your mother is evident from the simple observation that you have touched that necklace of yours no less that twelve times since we have started conversing. It could be a nervous habit, but that doesn't quite match up with your personality, does it? So, you do it for a sentimental reason; the necklace reminds you of someone. The style of the necklace suggests a woman, which indicates a mother or grandmother figure: most probably the previous.

"And the fact that you're on a full scholarship to one of the most prominent art universities in London implicates that- don't look so surprised, I simply hacked into your school files-"he says, rolling his eyes. "…That you needed an escape from something. There are plenty of excellent art schools in America, but you moved all the way across the seas. You were trying to escape an abusive previous life- the abuse bit I got from the way that you carry yourself, and those scars on your wrists." John and I both wince at this.

"Finally, there's a slight tremor in your hands, and your pupils are slightly dilated. You are obviously dependant on some sort of substance. Since you do not exhibit the seven other signs of an illegal drugs addict and according to those scars again, leads to the inference that you are on antidepressants, rather than a recreational drug user. So, yes, that was _all_ I was able to deduce, Miss Degas; feel free to correct me if I'm wrong." He drawls, and his eyes dare me to try.

"Very impressive. Although- you were wrong about the necklace. It was my older sister's. My mother's dead as well, but I was too young to really remember her; or to be seriously impacted by the event. Oh, and I _am_ natively British- I just grew up in the States. So, not bad at all, Mr. Holmes." I say, and smile, only half insincerely.

We stare at each other intently for a few moments, each challenging the other silently to say something. John awkwardly clears his throat. And then, Sherlock Holmes starts to chuckle heartily.

"How fascinating." he remarks, and continues to look at me questioningly, all the while continuing to laugh to himself. John and I make eye contact, and he shrugs, just as confused as I am. But then, that chief officer, D.I. Lestrade, comes running up to us.

"The ambulance carrying the suspect has disappeared. We're not getting any signal from the vehicle…" he pants. Holmes immediately stops laughing, and considers this new development.

"Where did you lose contact?" he asks, and abruptly walks away with the detective inspector, with only a "Come, John." directed at his companion. John rolls his eyes.

"Bloody git." he mumbles, and then shakes my hand again and thanks me.

"Sorry I have to strand you alone amongst this chaos, but a summons from the mighty Sherlock Holmes is not to be ignored." I snort at this, and watch him as he starts to walk away. Suddenly, I remember something.

"John!" I yell at the retreating figure, and he turns back. "What was on the papers that Williams took with him?" I had forgotten to ask about them earlier. But John looks perplexed by my question.

"Papers? What papers? I searched him myself, as did several of the police officers, directly after his fall. There was no sign of any papers… and the crime scene has been searched thoroughly… perhaps you're remembering things a bit incorrectly; that's not uncommon after a shock." I shrug, not sure of what to think, and he smiles encouragingly. "Well, goodbye Miss Degas. This has certainly been an experience. I think you may be the only person I've ever seen to ever make the great Sherlock Holmes entirely speechless. Maybe I'll see you around." And with that, he gives a friendly wave, and disappears into the sea of investigation occurring.

I shake my head. I'm not sure what I saw, but I was almost positive that Williams put those papers in his pocket… and then my thoughts are interrupted by and ear piercing squeal. I turn, and of course, it's Andrea running at me.

After a rather painful embrace and much exclaiming from my best friend, Andrea is given leave to take me back to the residence hall. She talks the entire way back, fussing over me, and prattling on about how she's going to make me take it easy over the oncoming weekend.

I only nod and "uh-huh," to her incessant chatter. It's not that I'm unhappy at her kindness, it's just that my mind is somewhere else, far away, trying to comprehend this fascinating Sherlock Holmes and the mystery of these disappearing papers. I'm not exactly positive about what just happened, but I have an uneasy feeling that it's going to have a much bigger impact than anyone, least of all myself, could ever have imagined.


End file.
